Boy Child, being flesh of my flesh or whatever, enjoys talking. A lot.

He's a good kid. One of the sweetest kids ever, honestly. Every time I have a parent/teacher conference the teacher always politely tells me that "Boy Child is a very good boy...it's just...he talks so much"

And then the teacher spends another twenty minutes with me? And they are totally screaming on the inside, "HE GETS IT HONESTLY. GOOD LORD THIS WOMAN NEVER SHUTS UP."

Heh.

Anyway, on the way home from camp the other day he and I were discussing our favorite topic: Various ways to get revenge on people.

I don't quite know why we discuss it so much or how exactly it became our favorite topic. But it seems like at least once or twice a week, we have some version of this conversation.

This one was particularly good, though.

Me: We should totally start a company! Beatdowns 'R Us!Boy Child: SWEET. Me: We could have an internet company too!http://www.wewillputthesmackdownonyourcandyass.com/ or something!Boy Child: AWESOME.Me: Yeah.Boy Child: Mom? We are so good at thinking up ways to get revenge on people, aren't we?Me: Sadly, we are.Boy Child: Yeah. I know. We're huge jerks.

Saturday, June 28, 2008

The long and winding roadThat leads to your doorWill never disappearI've seen that road beforeIt always leads me hereLead me to you doorThe wild and windy nightThat the rain washed awayHas left a pool of tearsCrying for the dayWhy leave me standing hereLet me know the wayMany times I've been aloneAnd many times I've criedAny way you'll never knowThe many ways I've tried-The Beatles, "The Long and Winding Road"

Friday, June 27, 2008

Well, it's a long, long, LONG story. I won't get into the research I've done, the attorney I had reviewing the contract (funny story though...I might tell it at some point), the hours of time I put in making sure that everything was legitimate and real because of all the people out there that try to scam writers and wanna-be writers. It's exhausting and frankly, it doesn't even matter.

But the upshot is I have agreed to write a book about the town I grew up in for a publisher out of Texas who publishes books about cities all over the country.

It will not make me famous.

It will not make me rich.

I will not have lots of book signings all over the country (I will in the town that the book is about though, so if you live there, you might see me).

BUT...

I will have a publishing credit to my name.

I will be able to say, I have published a book. I am a published author. (After I write it, that is)

I will get paid money to do what I love to do.

I will get the satisfaction of having written a book that people can buy in a store, if they so choose.

I will be proud of myself, for seeking something out, going for it, ovaries to the wall, and for getting my big old size 11 foot stuck firmly in the door.

So, it's a start.

My biggest fans, Boy and Girl Child were the first people I told. Girl Child, who reads nearly everything she can get her hands on and who has told me numerous times that she's going to be a writer when she grows up, was so excited she could hardly stand it.

She told me I was her hero.

I think that's enough. Don't you? I don't need the fame. I don't need to be known the world over.

Thursday, June 26, 2008

My great-grandmother is dying. She’s nearly ninety-five years old and when I saw her in May, she wasn’t herself at all.

This is not a surprise. People cannot live forever. She’s had pneumonia since December and hasn’t been able to get well. Some days she is quite lucid. Other times she sleeps all day long. She has no sense of taste or smell anymore and she can barely hear.

She’s existing. Not living.

It makes me sad for her. She’s hanging on…a fragile thread separates her current world from the next.

My grandma was old when I was born. It’s amazing to me that I am thirty-two years old and have a living great-grandmother. It occurs to me as I type this that she is the last one. The last of the great-grandmothers. I had several when I was born and when I was a small child. When she is gone there will be no more. My children are fifth generation. I have pictures of us all together.

Just last week my children and I were talking about all of their grandparents. My father is their only grandfather. The sperm donor’s father died last year (or maybe the year before…I can’t recall) and my husband’s father died when he was ten. I think.

My son asked me, “What about your grandfathers?”

And I said, “I don’t have any.”

The words caught in my throat.

I don’t have any.

I used to.

I used to have people. I used to have family.

Now I find myself on this little island. I have my children and my husband and my dog. We have this fortress around us. For our protection? I don’t know. It used to feel like it.

Maybe not anymore.

I have sisters. I have a brother. I have a mom and dad. I don't feel like I know any of them all that well.

I say this with no blame or malice. It is what it is. I don’t think any of these people are bad people, even me. I just think none of us, not one of us, had any idea what it meant to be a family. We took the cards we were dealt and did the best we could.

I always hoped that I would find the elusive “it”. The family I wanted and needed. I’ve created a family to the best of my ability within my own home. And we? Rock it. Really, my childhood fantasies of a family are pretty much living in my home right now. One boy, one girl, one husband, one dog. Stir in the momma and you’ve got yourself a family. Right?

So I find myself confused and perplexed and wondering why I so desperately feel that I need more.

I want to start living, not just existing.

Next week we are going to North Carolina at my dad’s request. We’ll shoot off fireworks at the 4th of July. My dad will probably cook something on his grill. We’ll all go swimming in the pool and I’ll probably stay up much later than I should playing video games with Boy Child.

We will all sit together for pictures as a family. Mom, dad, all four kids, all three husbands of four kids, and all eleven grandchildren. Together. As a family.

I’m going to try to figure out what all this means. What family means. And what, if anything, I can do to make it feel the way I want it to.

Sunday, June 22, 2008

My parents were married when my dad was 19 and my mom was 17. Nine months and twelve days after the day they were married, my sister was born. My dad was in Vietnam. He didn't see my sister until she was 9 months old.

My brother was born when my sister was four.

Eighteen months later, I was born.

Two years and one month later, my younger sister.

At 28, my dad had four kids and a wife to support. I think he made $6000 the year I was born.

It can't have been easy.

To complicate things, the four of us? Loud.

My dad? Quiet.

Not. Easy.

My dad was always a presence in our home, but never really there. I don't know how else to put it. My dad was the one who read us Bible stories at night. He was the one who took us to our softball games in his old blue truck. My dad was the one who put the food on the table and the shoes on our feet. He was the reliable one. With dad? We knew.

He was the most reliable person in my life. And I didn't know anything about him.

I grew up and got married and that all went to hell. My dad was the one who came to my house and loaded me and my little babies up in his van and drove us to North Carolina. My dad, this man I really didn't know at all, became the pseudo-dad to the little children I gave birth to. He would pick them up at daycare on the nights that I went to community college and all the little children, not just mine, would run to him screaming, "Poppaw! Poppaw!" They would all crowd around him and he would stop and talk to them, a twinkle in his eye.

He became everyone's Poppaw.

And I didn't know him at all.

I didn't know how it was when he was a child. I didn't know how he felt about having an alcoholic father and a mother who was a very sweet and loving enabler. How he felt having three sisters...did he feel responsible for them? How it felt to be 19 and be in the jungles of Vietnam and not sure if you'd ever get to see your daughter, except in pictures. I wondered why he never finished college, although he remains one of the smartest people I've ever met. I never asked him.

I found myself and then found Jason. My dad liked him very much, with the exception of the fact that he was from Connecticut.

"He'll marry her," he told my mom. "He'll marry her and take her away from here."

I never knew he cared.

I did marry him. After he asked me, he then went to my dad's home and asked him. Some might consider this ridiculous. I was twenty-seven after all, a grown woman with my own house and my own mortgage and my own children. Jason wasn't so much asking my father's permission as he was saying, "Approve of me. I love her. I want to be part of this."

It made my dad, this man I didn't really know at all, happy. He shook his hand. They were all smiles.

We moved away, eventually. Not to Connecticut as my dad feared. But still. Five hundred miles away.

It didn't matter. You know? I didn't know him at all. Not really.

Two years after we got here, I got the call that changed my life.

Cancer.

And I found myself in my car, racing towards this man I didn't know at all.

We sat around my dad's pool and we talked. Probably more words were exchanged during that time than we had spoken to one another our entire lives.

It came easier, for some reason.

Words came out that should have been said years ago. He talked about his past, he talked about my mom, and he talked about how it was for him when he was my age. How he struggled and how he worked. We sat around his pool and I looked at his fine house and all the nice things he has and I felt...pride. He has those things for no other reason than because he worked hard to get them.

This man is my dad.

Because of him, I am a hard worker. Because of him, I never quit. Because of him, I am kind to people when they don't deserve it.

Because of him, also, I don't always say what needs to be said. I don't wear my heart on my sleeve. I take a lot more crap than I should. I have trouble letting people into my life. I have trouble showing the people I love more than anything in this world, even my husband and my children, how very much I adore them.

I have the best parts of him.I have the worst parts of him.

Since then, we talk. He's more apt to call to me up, just to see how I am. I send him funny emails more frequently. Sometimes just forwards but usually little stories about Boy Child and Girl Child. Pictures of them. I ask his advice now. I check on him.

He's my dad.

I always felt sorry for my husband. His father was killed when he was a child. He never really knew him. I always felt a little sorry for myself too. I wanted a father-in-law. I wanted a family to love me and want me...to take me, and my children, in. I wanted us to have that.

Friday, June 20, 2008

I didn't know what to expect with this book. I knew it was a story about an alleged case of Munchausen by proxy (which has always fascinated me, oddly), but I didn't know it would be so much more...a story about class and race and the lines that divide people. I found myself totally engrossed in this book and unable to put it down. I finished in two days, an impressive feat, even for someone who devours books like they are oxygen.

The story centers around Josh and Dori, a husband and wife and parents of an 8 month old child Zach, and Dr. Darlene Stokes, the single, black physician who admits the baby to the ICU. When CPS takes the baby, everything comes to a head. People accuse the doctor of being a racist and trying to break up the family, who is Jewish. The media gets involved. It all gets so messy and complicated and muddled and all the characters are changed, forever.

The reader is left wanting more...not in an unsatisfied way, but because we are so compelled by the characters and the story that the author, Darin Strauss, has crafted. Everything gets blurry, but in a shockingly human way. The book reminds us that none of us are exactly as we seem, and none of us are exactly the way we portray ourselves to the outside world.

In a word? Brilliant. Darin Strauss is the kind of author I aspire to be.

(Also, on a totally frivolous note? The man ain't bad to look at. I'm just sayin')

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

Seriously, if you have THAT much of an issue with my small child accidentally touching an item you had HANGING OFF YOUR CART then you should not be allowed to be in public at anytime, ever. She apologized to you, even though YOU DID NOT DESERVE IT and you put your hands on your hips and huffed your breath out at her! Like she even did anything wrong!

If you aren't familiar with South Park, there's a song you should know:

Kyle's Mom is a Big Fat BitchWell... Kyle's Mom's a bitch, she's a big fat bitch,She's the biggest bitch in the whole wide world,She's a stupid bitch, if there ever was a bitchShe's a bitch to all the boys and girls!

On Monday she's a bitch, on Tuesday she's a bitch,On Wednesday's and Saturday's she's a bitch,Then on Sunday's, just to be different,She's a super King Kamebameda 'bee-atch'.

Wherever it says "Kyle's Mom"? Replace it with whatever your name is.

Love and stuff!That Chick

PS: If those baby clothes you were buying were for you? I weep for the future of America.

Dear lady in the parking lot who couldn't be bothered to return her cart to the cart corral,

Bitch, please.

For real, you can't walk an extra fifteen steps to put your cart into the cart corral? Really?

Because based on the metric ton of crap you placed into your SUV from that cart, you were certainly hale and hearty enough to walk around the Wal-Mart for at least an hour.

And how lovely it was of you to place the cart right behind my vehicle. Really, brilliant. Thanks ever so much for that.

I don't generally wish ill on others, but seriously? I hope an entire fleet of shopping carts breaks free from a corral and runs into your vehicle while you stand there helplessly watching. It would be super, also, if I were somewhere that I could see this entire episode, so I could point and laugh at you.

Love and junk!That Chick

PS: See the lyrics above. Please insert your name where it says "Kyle's Mom".

Dear lady who almost plowed me over in the Deli/Bakery department,

Bitch, please.

If it was really all that important for you to pick up your child's birthday cake, you could have gotten there an hour earlier. You running over my foot and slamming your cart into my backside because "you were in a hurry" is really 1) bitchy and 2) not my problem. Also, you don't get to line jump because "it's your son's birthday". Again, you should have been aware upon awaking this morning that it's your son's birthday and the fact that you were wearing pajama bottoms leads me to believe that you really haven't been busy doing many productive things today, unless you work from the home as a lady of ill repute, and by the way ma'am, if that is the case? You totally need to invest in some Victoria's Secret because those Big Dog pajama pants did absolutely nothing for you.

YOUR LACK OF PLANNING DOES NOT CONSTITUTE AN EMERGENCY ON MY PART. Or, you know, the part of the lady working at the Deli/Bakery.

YOU SUCK.

DO BETTER.

Love and kisses!That Chick

PS: See the song above. Please insert your own name in the place of "Kyle's Mom".

Dear Piddledick who was giving the old lady marking receipts at the door a hard time,

Douche, please.

That old lady probably makes like, $5 an hour. She works at freaking Wal-Mart instead of enjoying her Golden Years and grandchildren. And quite frankly, bless her heart, it does not appear that life has been particularly kind to her. The least you could do is not be a complete cockslap when she's trying to do her job. For the love of God, all she asked for was your receipt so she could verify you weren't trying to steal that 20lb. bag of charcoal and super-extra large box of Tampax you were purchasing. You didn't have to give the 200 year old woman a hard time.

STOP IT.

DO BETTER.

BEING A DICK IS NOT A REQUIREMENT FOR HAVING A DICK.

Thank you!That Chick

PS: See the song above. Insert your own name where it says, "Kyle's Mom" and "Douche" where it says, "Bitch."

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

It's still hot as balls in our house. Jason has about six different contractors coming in today so he can get quotes, since he is bound and determined that we are getting a new unit.

In fact, we had an entire conversation about it.

Jason: I think we should get a new unit.Me: Heh! You said "unit"!

*We both dissolve into giggles like 13 year old boys*

Okay, that was actually pretty much it.

The heat sucks. I think the heat would suck even if I wasn't fat as Holy Hell, but I am, so it's much worse. I'm getting like, elbow sweat. And if you need to know how attractive elbow sweat is let me just tell you. Not very.

Boy Child says this morning: Mom? Does the heat make you angry?Me: Um, maybe. Why do you ask?Boy Child: Because you look pretty mad mom.Me: It's more just the fact that it's 6:30am and I'm not sleeping.Boy Child: Does not sleeping making you sweaty too?Me: I'm going to need you to go sit over there now.

I don't know when I became so intolerant. When I was a child I would run around outside for hours in the 95 degree weather and not give a crap if I got sweaty or hot. Now, I'm saying things like, "I'M DYING. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. JASON, COME OVER HERE AND SPIT ON ME."

That's not attractive either.

Boy Child asked me on the way to camp this morning if the air would be fixed soon. I told him I hoped it would.

Boy Child: Good. I'm tired of sitting in ball soup.Girl Child: And I'm tired of sitting in vagina soup!Me: Um, your vagina doesn't hang out of your body, so I think you'll be okay.Girl Child, thinking: I don't want to sit in anyone's ball soup either. I think they might have gotten it on the couch.Me: OH MY GOOD LORD.Boy Child: It was Daddy!Me: IT WAS NOT. NO ONE IS SITTING NAKED ON THE COUCH.Boy Child: Either way. I'm tired of sweating my cubes off.Me: Could we just have one day in which we do not talk about scrotums for the love of God?

Sunday, June 15, 2008

I have no idea why it's messed up, but on Friday, it stopped working and we are sitting in, as Jason so attractively puts it, "ball soup".

Yesterday the high only got up to around eighty-five. Today, it's supposed to be in the 90's. The guy who lives next door works for a company that repairs heat pumps. Friday night he told us he'd come by around noon on Saturday and take a look at it. (We'll pay him of course). At around 3pm yesterday, he still hadn't showed and Jason, miserable and desperately hot, went over and knocked on the door. He was informed that he didn't really live there anymore, he just stayed there from time to time and apparently they had some kind of fight and she didn't know when/if he was coming and you know what that means?

Ball soup.

Jason said, "Please let's just go somewhere for a little while" and we decided we'd go to Chick-fil-A because they have a huge indoor play area we could sit at for a while and also, we really like chicken.

Jason went to get dressed and he came out wearing...a tank top. A tank top that said, "Diamond Head Hawaii".

I have never in my life seen my husband in a tank top. Never. Jason wearing a tank top is like...seeing a nun in a bikini wearing a baseball cap that says, "Rock out with your cock out!" It's just not done.

He looked at me and said, "Yeah. I'm wearing a tank top. It's so hot I just don't even care."

And so I did what any loving, supportive wife would do.

I laughed so hard my sides hurt.

Not that he looked bad, mind you. Because he didn't. He looked fine. He actually has big arms that would make certain men wear sleeveless shirts everywhere, including church. But it was just so funny to see Jason in a tank top. I can't even explain why, really.

We got in the car, after he insisted that Boy Child change from a t-shirt to a tank-top so they would "match" and I asked him when he had went to Hawaii. He hadn't. His mom and step-dad had brought it back from their honeymoon. They got married before I even met Jason, so it's had to be like fifteen years ago, which is further proof that my husband holds on to everything way past it's prime. I don't care if it was the last thing hanging in his closet (and really, who hangs tank tops in their closet unless they are Hulk Hogan?), fifteen years of hanging there unused is a very, very long time.

We get to Chick-fil-A and sit down. Boy Child sits with Jason after insisting that "Tank-top dudes" have to stick together.

The people at the next booth over keep staring at Jason and his tank top. I said, "You know what they are thinking, right?"

"No, what?"

"They're thinking, 'That guy wore that tank top just so he could show off his tattoo! Who does he think he is! This is a CHRISTIAN ESTABLISHMENT!'"

Heh.

We hung out there for a while, enjoying the air conditioner. Finally, we decided to head back to our house.

As we were driving home Jason said, "I can't believe I'm wearing a tank top in public."

"I know," I agreed. "Even after almost nine years of knowing you, you're still full of surprises."

We were silent for a moment and then he asked.

"Is tank-top-in-public wearing a divorceable offense?"

"Maybe," I said.

We laughed.

"Are you going to divorce me and my tank-top, babe?"

"Never."

And it's true. I won't even divorce him even though he closed a document I've been working on without saving and I've lost about six hours of work on it.

Friday, June 13, 2008

Women always have a tendency to undervalue themselves - it's sad. It's also apparently a big issue in job applications. Men will apply to all kinds of jobs they don't really qualify for because they figure they should just go for it. If women don't believe they fit all the requirements perfectly they don't bother. *sigh*

She's so right, you know?

And what's weird is, on the 11th I saw an advertisement for a job way outside my field, that looked really interesting and fun and like something I would be good at.

I tried to talk myself out of applying, with my usual self-doubt. But I didn't. I said, "Why not?" and I sent my resume.

They called me last night. I missed the call unfortunately, but when I called back this morning they wanted to see me. Today.

I went for my interview and before I had even left the building they were calling my references.

I don't know if it will work out, y'all, but it feels good to take a chance.

So we did what the Modern Mom does, I suppose. I showed her a webpage on the Internet. I think it explained it pretty well. I think she threw up in her mouth a little bit when I explained tampons, but really, if anyone thinks about it very much? It is pretty darn hurl-worthy.

Then I told her, just because you can "do" sex and have a baby, doesn't mean you should.

"Girl Child," I asked. "What will you say if some boy asks you to have sex with him?"

She scoffed. "You wish buddy!"

"You know that's right," I agreed. "And what if some boy says, 'If you love me you'd do it!'"

She scoffed again, and whipped her hand up in the shape of an L, "If you loved ME you wouldn't ask ME to do crap like that!"

"Good girl. And what if some boy says, 'Don't worry! If you get pregnant, I'll take care of you AND the baby!'"

"Come talk to my mom and see how THAT worked out for HER!"

Seriously. I think Girl Child is going to be good. That girl has some serious Home Training.

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

My children are at Nerd Camp now. It's making my life, for the most part, much easier.

Nerd Camp is in the same city that I work in, so I don't have to go 10 miles the opposite direction to drop them off. Nerd Camp is associated with the city, so the children get a hot lunch every day and I don't have to pack lunches (not a big deal) or worry about the fact that we don't have anything I can pack (a somewhat bigger deal). The drop-off for Nerd Camp is literally three minutes from the office in which I am sitting. The kids have been to this camp for three years in a row and they have a lot of friends, including Girl Child's bff.

So why do I want to kill people when I drop the children off every morning?

I'm willing to guess that it could be Self-Involved Mom.

You know the type. You might even know a Self-Involved Mom all your own.

The drop-off area is a small, circular spot in front of a building. People pull through the circle and park and about eight cars at a time can fit. Which is great until Self-Involved Mom drives her car up and, instead of waiting less than a minute until someone drives away, parks her car in the middle of the circle, ensuring that no one can get in or out until her precious off-spring is safely delivered into camp and effectively crapping a big Douche Patty on the rest of us.

Self-Involved Mom will typically use this opportunity to talk to everyone at the camp, involved with the camp, or in any position of authority at camp, usually complaining loudly about the various injustices her precious wee-one (who is usually ten, looks like a wanna-be thug, and is sullen and silent) suffered. For example, "Yesterday you served a snack of peanut butter crackers! Little Willis doesn't LIKE peanut butter crackers! I really just don't think it's fair that the only snack you offer is peanut butter crackers! He likes chocolate chip cookies! Why don't you offer Willis chocolate chip cookies?"

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Even if you arrive before Self-Involved Mom and are already out of your car and walking toward the entrance, Self-Involved Mom will sprint out of her car, leaving the drivers door open and the child in the backseat, to ensure that she gets her rightful place ahead of you in line. Because, clearly, Self-Involved Mom is way more important than you've ever even dreamed of being. Sadly, Self-Involved Mom doesn't get a lot of exercise, so this minor physical exertion is way to much for her to handle and before she can even speak to the camp counselor or anyone else, she must stand, panting and telling everyone how she has to catch her breath and wait for little Willis to get out of the Astro van.

Because Self-Involved Mom is clearly only concerned about well, herself, she will not notice that there is a large line of other moms and dads standing behind her, waiting to register for their children for the day, so they can go on to work. Self-Involved Mom will then begin what I like to call the "Dissertation Involving Everything In The Free World".

"Willis! Did you bring your swimsuit today? Are you sure? Are you sure you're sure? Are you positive? Let me just check your bag Willis. Willis! Why did you bring the GREEN swimsuit? Didn't we talk last night for three and a half hours about why you should bring the BLUE swimsuit? I really just don't understand Willis. The blue swimsuit really goes with your eyes and this green one. Well. I just don't know. I mean it looks OKAY on you, but it's really not the best color for you. What do you think Willis? I really do care about your opinion. *Sigh* Well, it's done now, I guess. I can't really go and get you another one since I have somewhere to be at 11am and I haven't even showered or put on my make-up yet. Willis, today, after you go swimming, be sure to change into your RED shorts. Not the yellow shorts you have on now. It looks like you got something on those shorts. What is that? WHAT IS THAT? Let me see you closer! LET ME SMELL OF THAT! Is that MUSTARD? How did you get MUSTARD ON YOUR YELLOW SHORTS!"

Whiskey, Tango, Foxtrot.

At some point while in line, or rather, blocking the line, Self-Involved Mom's cell phone will ring. Because Self-Involved Mom is Way More Important Than You and people need to call her prior to 8am. Self-Involved Mom's phone conversations with her Mom, aka, Self-Involved Grandma, are far to important for her to skip, so instead of completing the check-in process and calling Self-Involved Grandma or Drunk Best Friend or whomever back at a later time, Self-Involved Mom must make everyone else wait so that she can have the conversation right. that. second. I mean, it's really important to tell Self-Involved Grandma what Self-Involved Mom and Willis had for dinner last night. Self-Involved Grandma would likely DIE if she didn't know they had Sweet potatoes and fried Chicken. Self-Involved Grandma's ACTUAL LIFE hangs in the balance here! Let's not be selfish people!

Because, in case you haven't heard by now? Self-Involved Mom is way more important than you are. Way.

Sadly, Self-Involved Mom is raising little Willis to be Self-Involved Douche. He's mean to the other kids and sullen and pouty when he doesn't get his way. He expects everything to go his way because, frankly? Self-Involved Mom has always ensured that it has. He's rude to Self-Involved Mom and she just shrugs her shoulders and says to all the other moms, "Oh, you know how kids are!" while the other moms shake their heads and think, "If my kid talked to me like that, I'd knock him down so far he'd have to unzip his pants to brush his teeth."

But little Willis doesn't know any better.

If I could have just five minutes with Self-Involved mom I would say to her (after repeatedly bitch-slapping her upside her head):"You aren't special. You aren't important. You are lazy and self-centered and self-involved and you are raising a spoiled brat, self-involved little douche hat. I don't give two craps what Barney told you, YOU AREN'T SPECIAL. You just aren't. Wait your damn turn, get your stupid car out of the center of the circle, and stop acting like everyone here owes you something. Because THEY DON'T. Oh and by the way, GET OVER YOURSELF."

But really? It would be a waste of time. She probably wouldn't even hear me over Self-Involved Grandma telling her about Days of Our Lives yesterday and the fish they had for dinner last night.

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Okay for real, as geeked out as this makes me, I really enjoy going to the grocery store. Forking over the cash, I don't so much enjoy, but I like shopping. I like saving money. I like lining up all the things in my little cart just so.

So Girl Child and I go outside to get in our car and a lady from up the street starting calling to me.

I turned around and she came running down the street. The lady was maybe in her 40's. She was wearing a tank top and really short shorts. She had more tattoos than teeth.

"Can you help me?"

I raised my eyebrows at her.

"I need some gas for my car. I've got to go to work and I don't have any gas."

I said, "I don't think we have any gas either, except what is in our cars right now."

And I waited. You know, because I was fairly certain she was going to whip out some device which would allow her to siphon gas out of my tank.

But she didn't.

She said, "Can you give my boyfriend a ride up the street to the Pilot so he can get some gas in the can and then give him a ride back here?"

My daughter is standing there, looking at me.

The woman notices my daughter and says, "Where's your scooter?"

Sigh.

So I said, "I don't mean to be rude, but I don't know your boyfriend and I wouldn't feel comfortable giving a man I don't know a ride anywhere."

What I was thinking in my head was, IF THAT MAN GETS IN MY CAR HE WILL RAPE AND ROB ME AND MY DAUGHTER AND SOMEONE WILL FIND US DEAD ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD SOMEWHERE AND JASON WILL BE *REALLY* PISSED.

But I didn't say that. It seemed like it would be overkill.

She looked at me like I had two heads for a moment and then she said, "Well, I understand. I could go instead."

So I said, "Okay."

I said okay, y'all.

She went back to her house and was standing in the yard talking on the phone. I drove up and asked her to hop in the back with Girl Child. Her boyfriend brought the gas can over to the car and said, in a accent which sounded more like Jason than me, "Thanks very much for doing this. It's very nice of you."

She got in.

She said, "I told my boyfriend you said that you didn't want him to go!"

I thought, Great. Now the boyfriend will come over and shank me while I'm getting the newspaper on Sunday. Perfect. Just perfect. JAY-SUS.

As we drove to the gas station the lady talked. She told me she had a job cleaning houses. She told me her boyfriend had just moved here from Michigan. She told me her oldest son had just had a child and she was pretty irritated with him right now (I didn't ask why, but I assumed it was because he was pretty young and had just had a child). She told me the ages of her other kids.

She said the guy next door (the old man) was mean and had been mean to her kids and yelled at them and threatened to kill them if they threw their ball into his yard. I told her that the people who used to live there were pretty awful and their kids would do stuff like, throw hammers at people's cars, so the old man was probably just trying to protect himself.

The lady was...well, she was nice. She was okay. You know?

She got her can in the car and I brought her back to the house. She thanked me, again, for the ride and her boyfriend came over and thanked me again too.

Girl Child had been very quiet this whole time and when we were alone again and on our way to the market she said, "Mom? Why did you do that lady a favor?"

I said, "I don't know honey. I really don't know. I didn't want to. But for some reason I just felt like I should help her out."

She was quiet and then she said, softly, "Maybe everyone isn't a douchebag mom."

Monday, June 09, 2008

So what do you do when you finish your book and you are busily sending out queries?

Well, if you are a normal person I suppose you have a bit of patience and wait and see if someone wants to buy it.

But no one's ever accused me of being normal.

So I finished my second book.

To be fair, it's more of a collection of essays (that I didn't have to start from scratch and I've been working on for a long time). Sort of like...well, what I write on this blog, I guess. They are all focused on my life between the time I had Boy and Girl Child and when I met Jason.

So yeah, there's a whole lot of Ohnohedidn't-ery.

I like it. I'm happy with it. With the first book I was at a point that I hated it and wanted it dead. I'm not at that point with this one yet, so that feels good.

It feels good!

I like being done with stuff. It makes me feel accomplished or some crap.

But it also feels scary. And pukey. I found this agency that I felt like would be perfect. The people seemed quirky, like me. Quirky in a good way, you know? Not psycho quirky. So I wrote a query and attached the first three chapters and emailed it to them (that's what they want...every agent is different).

And then I went to the bathroom and puked my guts out.

It's certainly not the end of the world if they don't like me. Hell, I don't like myself most of the time.

Saturday, June 07, 2008

There are a million things I was going to blog about today. The funny conversation Jason and I had last night, the weird thing that happened on my way to the grocery store this morning (I'm going to HAVE to blog about that at some point), the dog, money...you name it, it's been in my head as a blog post for a couple of days.

But today? I'm going to talk about my son.

Last night I was sitting at my desk working (okay, reading blogs) and my son came over to talk to me. I turned my head ever so slightly as he came into my field of vision.

It was like seeing a ghost.

My son looks like his biological father.

My husband is not his biological father.

I don't think a lot about my ex-husband. I don't know if he's even still alive, honestly. He had a lot of medical issues that could have killed him if he didn't take care of himself and he? Did not take care of himself.

But when my son came to me last night, all tall and skinny and lanky? It freaked me out just a little bit.

I don't like my ex-husband. I have not seen him in many, many years. I don't want to see him.

My son is the polar opposite of his sperm donor. He's funny and bright and kind-hearted. He is probably the coolest kid I've ever met. He's artistic and good at science.

He's really a great kid.

I once took a child psychology class and we talked about Nature vs. Nuture. My ex-husband is not a nice person. He is, in fact, a complete douchehat. My husband is a very good person. I am mostly a very good person. I was very sad, sitting in that class, thinking about how even though we are very good people, my son might grow up and not be a very good person. It made me sick and it made me scared. Because I would never want my son to be like the person his father turned out to be.

I know it doesn't matter that he looks like him. I mean, I knew he would. He's always looked enough like me though. He looks like my sister's sons. They could all be brothers. They all have the same brown eyes, so it doesn't matter my eyes are green. They all have the same dark hair, so it doesn't matter that mine isn't the same color.

Friday, June 06, 2008

Last night I sat through a meeting during which I alternately wanted to laugh out loud and bitchslap someone.

Ten years ago, I could have sat through that meeting and felt rejuvenated. I would have felt important and powerful, and like a part of something.

And now? It all sounds like advanced BS and flat-out lies.

I'm bothered. It's frustrating.

What's most frustrating for me in all this is that, in admitting that this is all advanced BS I lose this big part of myself. The part that really believes that people want to do the right things and really care about the welfare of others. That people in a position of power and authority who CAN make a difference really WANT to and WILL make a difference.

It's sad really. Everyone sat there and listened to all the big plans and the exciting changes and they nodded their heads and smiled and I kept thinking,

Thursday, June 05, 2008

Because I find myself reading a lot of blogs lately and not commenting. And I'm feeling kind of sucky about it.

Most of the time, I don't comment because my days go like this:

Oh! Look at this blog! Oh! She's having a boy! Oh how fabulous! Isn't that...what? YOU DID WHAT TO THE DOG?!?!?! OH MY FREAKING LORD! DON'T TOUCH HER EVER AGAIN! DOGS DO NOT LIKE TO WEAR UNDERWEAR ON THEIR HEADS BOY CHILD, EVEN THOUGH IT IS HILARIOUS. THANK YOU! Where was I? Oh yes! Look at this...OH! SHINY PICTURE BOX! Wait, what? What did Obama say? GINGER! I DON'T WANT TO HOLD YOU RIGHT NOW! JAY-SUS!

So, it's a problem. My lack of focus can be quite disturbing.

Also, sometimes I don't comment because I just don't know what to say.

And? I'll admit to not commenting sometimes because I feel like a huge dork. I think, "I'll comment and that blog author will be all like, O!M!G! not HER again!"

Wednesday, June 04, 2008

As I have mentioned many times, I am married to a Very Appropriate Man.

I don't mind this, necessarily. Most of the time, even though I am more along the lines of Wildly Inappropriate, his appropriateness does not bother me. Frankly, I would much rather him sit quietly and listen thoughtfully and respond tactfully as opposed to being one of those guys you see on Cops with no shirts on who are yelling and/or crying because they've been pulled over and they "Didn't do nuthin'!"

I mean, there could be some middle ground, maybe. I don't know. I deal with what I have.

Yesterday Jason comes home, extremely insulted.

"Can you believe," he asked me, "that my boss asked me to go the restroom when I blow my nose?!"

"The NERVE OF THAT BITCH!" I said, sarcastically.

"I know!" he said, completely missing the sarcasm, as usual.

I sighed. "Jason. For the love of God. Just go to the bathroom when you blow your nose. It grosses some people out."

I mean me? No. Snot does not gross me out. Vomit does not gross me out. Brain surgery and childbirth? Not gross. Someone could hack up a kidney in front of me and I'd be like, "Do you need a napkin?"

It's hard to gross me out.

But I get that some people don't want to hear you blowing your nose. I do. I respect that.

Jason, however, looked even more wounded that I was not taking his side and declared, "But! But! The bathroom is RIGHT NEXT to the office! It's like ten steps away!"

So I smiled, and nodded. Because I was losing this battle, for sure.

"AND! AND!" he said, more excited than he was on our wedding day, "I had to hear Coworker VOMIT THE OTHER DAY!"

Tuesday, June 03, 2008

So recently, we were going to go eat at Big Ed's Pizza. Jason and the children had never been there and it's possibly the most delicious pizza I've ever eaten, ever, and I really wanted to share the experience with my family.

But it was closed that day. Bummer.

So we went down the street to another restaurant. And the waitress? Well, I was pretty sure, almost immediately, that she was trying to get with my husband.

It was weird. I'm not an overtly jealous woman. Frankly, I've told my husband in no uncertain terms that if he ever decided that any appendage of his person would in any manner involve any orifice of another woman, well, she could have his ass. I love him and all, but I'm not fighting for him. If he wants to be with someone else, she can have him. And his beard brush! I'm not dealing with that crap.

So I think he gets that.

So anyway, within moments of sitting down at our table, this woman, our waitress, was opening flirting with my husband.

Openly.

I get that there is some level of that, when you go out to eat. I've seen the waitstaff be especially friendly to the person who will be leaving the tip. I mean, fiscally, that makes a lot of sense to me. I don't begrudge people working hard for their money or anything.

But something about Flakely McWaitresspants was different.

And I said, "Jason. Oh my God. I'm afraid she's going to climb up on your lap or something."

And he said, "Chicken. No wait. What?"

Because, you know, he's clueless. If she DID climb into his lap he'd be all like, "I'll have sweet tea. Thanks."

So then she came back to the table and I was pointing to what I wanted on the menu (I always do that because if I say it and don't point to it? It's often not what I ordered by the time it gets to the table) and she said,

"What a beautiful ring! Is that your wedding ring?"

Let's assess the situation. I am sitting across the table from a man who calls me "baby". I'm wearing a diamond, sparkly ring on my ring finger. There are two kids sitting with us and we're talking about our family trip to the museum.

Clearly this man is my pimp. I mean, duh.

Anyhoo. We chuckle about this. She brings him the wrong drink FOUR TIMES IN A ROW. He is remarkably patient.

Okay, so we're almost done eating and she says to Jason, "Do you know about the Festival? Is that this week?"

Jason tells her he has no idea when it is, as we do not live in this town and don't keep up with such things.

She then says, and I swear to Fred, I couldn't even believe this, "It's really fun. We should go! You could give me your number and we could meet up."

FOR. REALS.

I looked at her and looked at Jason and raised my hands, because, you know, I talk with my hands especially when I am angry and Jason quickly said,

"Me and my wife?"

And she said, "Oh! Sure! We'd have a great time!"

Oh JAY-SUS.

Then she said, "Well, I'll take your ticket whenever you are ready!" Then she quickly walked away before I could say, "WHATEVER PHARMACEUTICALS YOU ARE CURRENTLY UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF BETTER PROVIDE YOU WITH STRONG PAIN RELIEF SISTER BECAUSE YOU ARE ABOUT TO FEEL IT."

But actually, I just shook my head and kind of laughed.

Jason said, "Well, she's young and she seemed kind of flaky. Maybe she's just trying to make new friends?"

Monday, June 02, 2008

This weekend in a haze of NyQuil and snot, I turned on the television and discovered a television program that probably everyone else on the planet already knows about.

I'm talking about, of course, the amazing amazingness that is The Bachelor.

O. M. G.

So I start watching this show, okay? And apparently I'm watching the first season. And I get completely and totally engrossed, almost immediately. And I'm saying to the television, "WHY IS HE PICKING AMANDA? WHAT IS WRONG WITH HIM THAT HE'S PICKING AMANDA!" And Jason came in and told me to just lay down because he's afraid the NyQuil is negatively affecting my brain or some crap, and I'm dying! DY-ING.

Because this is the most horrible show I've ever seen, EVER, and I. can't. stop. watching. it.

First of all, and I honest to Fred don't mean this in an ugly way, at all, but why can these men not find women on their own without the benefit of ABC's big fat bankroll and a bunch of cameras? I mean, in the first season? The guy Alex? He was very attractive and seemed like a decent guy, but then everything he did was just so freaking dorky. And he went to Harvard and Stanford and said he liked The Simpsons, but at the same time he seemed way, way emotionally invested in what his parents thought. I don't know if that's normal because I don't really have a normal relationship with my parents and wouldn't expect them to give me relationship advice (my parents think if the guy hasn't proposed by the third date, he's just not that into you) or anything, so I don't know.

What disturbed me the most was that these women, who were all attractive and seemed reasonably intelligent and whatnot, seemed OBSESSED AND DETERMINED that this Man Would Be Theirs.

What. The. Damn. Hell?

Did some event occur on this planet that I am unaware of that has knocked out the majority of potential mates for these lovely women? Because, um, last time I checked (and granted, I've been off the market for a while, but still), there were plenty of men out there ripe for the picking. Granted, you have to weed through those wearing trucker caps which proudly proclaim "Rock Out With Your Cock out", but still. Those guys are easy to spot, right? They advertise, even. You can figure out their motivation right away.

I was disturbed by some of the women, who had known this man a scant few weeks, sobbing and crying and saying, "But I was falling in love with him!"

How? HOW can it be possible?

The night I met Jason I felt a spark. Okay, more than a spark. I had a strong, strong feeling that he was the one.

We did not, however, have cameras following us all the time. Nor was I sharing him with a houseful of other women that he was locking lips with on a regular basis. In five weeks, he did not propose. Oh let me assure you. It was much, much longer than five weeks.

And frankly? As much as I liked him and as much as I thought I had a real future with him? I would have freaked the crap out if he had proposed after five weeks. I can't decide on shoes after only five weeks, much less someone who has to see me naked and deal with my long-term relationship with Sallie Mae.

I mean I know it's just t.v., but that seems kind of flip. Don't you think?

Sunday, June 01, 2008

At approximately 3am, I decided that we needed to move back to North Carolina. Somehow being there will magically solve all of my problems, I suppose. I woke Jason up to tell him of this plan.

At three o'clock in the morning.

He was not amused. He said we would talk later when I wasn't high on NyQuil.

So I got up and came to my computer. So I could look for jobs. In North Carolina, people. NORTH CAROLINA.

Remember what I said about North Carolina? That it would be a cold day in hell and all that?

I got distracted by MSN. I wanted to log into MSN and check up on my board. So I kept typing in www.msn.com again and again and again and the stupid page would not change. It was extraordinarily frustrating and I was about to cry when I realized something.

My home page? Is set to MSN.

So. There's that.

No one was around at 3am to talk to me, so I started looking for jobs, got confused and applied for one in North Dakota instead of North Carolina. I then sent the person an email and told them to disregard because I was high on NyQuil.

I tried to recall it, but it didn't work.

Sigh.

Sorry random company in North Dakota. Please do not turn me in to any authorities.

I went back to bed and kept dreaming I had a bunch of step-kids. It was really weird. They all had red hair.

I got up and took more NyQuil.

I don't think the NyQuil is doing anything except helping me to sleep.